


The Feast of Unity

by elwinfortuna, Isilloth



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Baking, Before Melkor Is Released, Everything Is Cake Meme, F/M, Fairy Tale Elements, Family Rivalry, Finwe's A+ Parenting, Focus on original characters, Friendship, Kissing, Romance, The Cake Is Not A Lie, Tirion, Years of the Trees
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:13:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 11,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26119345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elwinfortuna/pseuds/elwinfortuna, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isilloth/pseuds/Isilloth
Summary: Young baker and cake artist Fandal, who works in the kitchens of the Royal Palace, sparks up a romance with his friend Aramiuel, one of the King’s Callers. About the same time, he is entrusted with a secret commission for the upcoming Feast of Unity, where King Finwë will attempt to halt the rivalry between his two eldest sons with a surprise announcement. Will Finwë succeed? Will Fandal and his team work miracles in cake form? And will Fandal win his lady-love’s heart?
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Male Character
Comments: 12
Kudos: 14
Collections: Tolkien Reverse Summer Bang 2020





	1. Fifteen Days To Go

**Author's Note:**

> Story by elwinfortuna, art by Isilloth.
> 
> Betaed by raiyana: thank you so much!

"Hear ye, hear ye, people of Tirion!" the caller proclaimed, and Fandal stopped, market basket over his arm, to listen to the news, along with a swift gathering of many others. 

The caller, Fandal's childhood friend Aramiuel, spoke after a moment, her voice ringing loudly through the square. "King Finwë will hold a great feast fifteen days from now, to celebrate the achievements of his sons: Curufinwë, who has attained his fifth field of Mastery, and of Nolofinwë, who despite his youth has already achieved his fourth."

Fandal grinned to himself. No need to ask on which side of the ever-present debate Aramiuel fell. She'd had a crush on Nolofinwë since that time he saved her from a fall in the marketplace -- and that had been when she was a toddler. 

Aramiuel spoke on. "King Finwë will at that time settle the issue that has been much discussed: which of his sons is High Prince and heir. He calls it the Feast of Unity.” She ceased, stepping down from the high podium, and was immediately mobbed by eager questioners, desperate for more in the way of detail. 

Fandal lingered until the crowd around her thinned, and then approached, setting his market basket by on the wall nearby. Aramiuel, having dismissed the last of the questioners, was putting her hand to her head in apparent discomfort when Fandal tapped her on the shoulder. 

She whirled around. “No,” she said. “No, I don’t know how many invitations will be sent out or who they will be sent to. I don’t know the exact time of the Feast yet. And I definitely don’t know which son will be declared the heir!” She blinked, and then suddenly seemed to recognise her old friend. “Oh! Fandal, I’m so sorry. It’s good to see you!” 

Fandal laughed. “I don’t really care which of them is proclaimed heir, so long as one of them is and this squabbling in the streets ceases. It’s good to see you too, Aramiuel. So, King’s Caller! I knew you’d find a use for that loud voice sooner or later!”

Aramiuel laughed. “It’s a job I usually enjoy,” she said, “but these days it seems to be all Fëanorian this and Nolofinwean that. You know I favour Nolofinwë but this is ridiculous.”

“Walk with me, Arva,” Fandal said, grinning. “Let’s get you out of the square, at least.”

“What are you doing these days, Fandal?” Aramiuel asked. “Not still obsessed with painting tiny images on wooden beads? Or doing mosaics? Or creating glassware?” 

“None of those things,” Fandal said. “These days I create works of art in the kitchen. I’m one of the King’s cooks, in fact. I ice and paint cakes, decorate pastries, braid bread, finish and plate dishes, all that sort of thing.” He smiled over at her. 

“Oh! You’re one of the cooks working on the Feast!” Aramiuel exclaimed. “You probably know more about it than I do!” 

“I have so many ideas for what I could do,” Fandal said. “I’m hoping to get more specific instructions to help me narrow my plans down, but believe me, there will be a lot of pretty cakes at the Feast!” 

“I’m sure there will be,” Aramiuel said. “I’ve heard some of the Palace staff will be invited, and I hope I’ll be one of them. And I’m so glad you’ve found a craft worthy of your talent at last.” 

Fandal stopped for a moment at a place where the road met another, turning to face Aramiuel, and took her hand. “I’d like to show you what I can do. Will you allow me to prepare dinner for you at my home three days from now? I still live with my parents; you know the place.” 

She blushed; the offer was tantamount to an open request for courting. “Is this just to show off your talent?” 

“A little,” he said, laughing. “But you must know, Arva, how much I’ve always esteemed you. And we’ve not had much opportunity to talk lately, I’d like to fix that.” 

“Then you may,” Aramiuel said. “I’ll come to your home at the dinner hour three days from now.” With a blazing smile, she leaned over and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. “Farewell, Fandal, until then!” she breathed, and slipped her hand from his to turn and walk down the road in the direction of her own home. 

Fandal pressed a hand to his heart with a brilliant smile and watched her go, eyes alight with joy. 

**Later that day**

“Fandal! The bread is ready for braiding!” Elévanda, the head cook, called out from the doorway of the cool baker’s room, and Fandal quickly finished topping off a fruit tart, placing it onto a serving tray before rushing over into the main kitchen near the ovens. 

The braiding of bread was something he particularly enjoyed. Swiftly, he formed the long shapes that would make up the braids, and then began to fold them over each other, one after the other, fingers flying, a smile on his face as though he heard unseen music to work by. 

Twelve loaves in all, and soon enough they were resting ready to be put into the great baker’s oven. The next task was over in the cool room where a cake was being iced by his friend Alatir. Once it was thoroughly frosted, Fandal would take over and paint scenes over the icing with coloured sugar water, misty like watercolours. Mountains and valleys for the lower layer, Fandal thought, and delicate spires of a city for the upper layers, suggesting Tirion at her most beautiful. 

“Fandal, have you heard anything about what sort of cakes the King wants for the Feast?” Alatir asked as soon as Fandal had made his way over. 

Fandal smiled, remembering Aramiuel from the day before. “Not yet. I hope to hear something soon.” 

“We won’t have much time to prepare if they don’t let us know very soon,” Alatir said, his pretty face taking on a slightly stressed look. “We’re going to be so busy in here.” He added a final swipe to the icing, smoothing it out fully, and then moved the cake carefully over in front of Fandal. “This cake is for Queen Indis’s tea party this afternoon.”

“Oh, I had perhaps better stick with flowers, then,” Fandal said. “I was going to do mountains and spires.” 

“I’ve heard Indis is very fond of yellow primroses.” Alatir gestured to the top layer of the cake. “If you want, I could arrange for some to be delivered so you can decorate the top with fresh flowers and then paint some along the sides.” 

“That sounds perfect,” Fandal said. “I’m sure it will please the queen.”


	2. Fourteen Days to Go

Very early in the morning, before the Mingling had changed Telperion’s light for Laurelin’s, the Queen made her way into the kitchen, and Elévanda dashed over upon seeing her. “My Queen, welcome,” she said, bowing. “What may I do for you?”

Indis smiled. “The cake for my tea party yesterday was particularly beautiful,” she answered. “I would like to speak with the person who decorated it.”

“That was our Fandal,” Elévanda said. “He is in the next room, preparing pastries, I believe.” She gestured to the door of the cool room, where dim shapes could be seen through the heavy glass door. 

“I will take you through, my lady,” said Mirtillë, one of Elévanda’s assistants, laying aside her chopping knife. “‘Vanda, these onions are ready.” 

Elévanda nodded. “Thank you, Mirtillë.” 

With a smile back at Elévanda, Indis followed Mirtillë through the large and busy kitchen to the glass door that separated the heat of the cooking from the cooler areas needed for working with pastry and cakes. The room was a bakers’ paradise, set up with dozens of workstations, some with surfaces of cool metal or marble. The steel door beyond that room led down into a cave-like underground cold storage facility, cool enough to keep frozen things frozen even during the heat of the summer. 

Fandal was working at a pastry station, rolling out the dough and working fresh butter into it. After this was done, he would fill them with jam or chocolate, leaving some plain as well. The pastries would then be set aside on a cool tray to await baking in a little while, and would come out hot and delicious for the royal family’s breakfast. 

“Fandal, do you have a moment?” Indis asked, and Fandal set down his rolling pin. 

“Of course, my queen.” He turned to one of the other bakers. “Meldalot, if you have a moment, can you take over here?” 

Meldalot, a short and sturdy-looking blonde Elven woman, placed a tray full of rolls onto the countertop, ready to rise. “Consider it done,” she said, contriving somehow to both smile at the Queen and wink at Fandal. 

Fandal laughed. “What do you need from me, my lady?” 

Indis gave him a smile. “I am told that you are the one who decorated my cake so beautifully yesterday. I would like to discuss the soon-coming Feast with you, as I feel you are the right one to plan the desserts.” She gestured, and led him out of the cool room, and back through the kitchen. Elévanda, from her station at the front of the room, looked across at Fandal. 

“Is all well, my Queen?” 

“Very well,” Indis said. “I must borrow your Fandal for a few moments, but I will return him soon.” Behind her back, Fandal grinned merrily across at Alatir, who smiled back. He was looking through a basket of nuts, carefully picking out the best ones. Later he would be making pecan pralines as a decoration for tonight’s dessert. 

Indis led Fandal to a small office not far from the kitchens, where to Fandal’s surprise King Finwë was waiting for them. “This is Fandal, who decorated the cake so beautifully yesterday,” Indis said. 

“How may I serve my King and Queen?” Fandal asked, bowing.

“Sit down for a moment,” Finwë said. “I would like to entrust you with a commission for our Feast, a secret that you and the other bakers must keep.” 

“Gladly,” Fandal said, sitting down on the chair Finwë had gestured to, hands clasped at his front. 

“I would like the Feast to have an element of fun and playfulness about it,” Finwë said. “And if my bakers can do it, I would particularly enjoy desserts that look like other things.”

“Other things?” Fandal asked. “Like birds or animals or flowers? I’ve done that before.” 

“I recall. They were lovely,” Finwë said. “But what about desserts that look like other foods?” 

“Cake that looks like dinner?” Fandal said, beginning to smile at the thought. “Or like a bowl of apples? Like a roasted goose? Like mashed potatoes?”

“Yes!” Finwë exclaimed. “Exactly. Like those things.” 

“What about a fruit pie that looks like a meat pie?” Indis suggested. “Or meatballs that are actually doughnuts?” 

Finwë laughed. “Perfect! Now, my boy, I depend on you to lead this. I will tell Elévanda that you are to be given full rein over the desserts. Pick a few of your fellow bakers to assist you with the final decorations and share the secret with no others, not your dearest friends or family. I want this to be a surprise to all who see it.”

“Of course!” Fandal said, nodding. “You may depend on me. I will choose Alatir, Tintinallë, and Poicë to assist me. We will keep it to ourselves.” 

Finwë gave him a smile. “I know you will create things of both beauty and surprise. Even I don’t want to know any more. Just make desserts that will be exciting and new, things never seen in Tirion before.” 

“I will,” Fandal said, and at the King’s gesture, stood up. 

“You may return to your kitchens, Fandal, and good fortune attend your work!”

With another low bow, Fandal departed, walking quickly back through the corridor to the kitchen. He slipped inside, giving Elévanda a wide grin, and then made his way to Alatir’s side. 

“Once you have finished your work for the moment, come and see me in the cold storage room. If you see Poicë or Tintinallë, bring them along too.”

“I spot intrigue,” Alatir said with a grin. “I will be done as soon as I can be.” 

Fandal spent the next three-quarters of an hour in a frenzy both of hard work on the day’s baking and delighted anticipation. His head was in the clouds, and it was lucky that he was working on a bread he had made so many times that he hardly needed to pay attention to what he was doing. At last, he set it aside to rise, and spent the next few minutes indulging in some unrestrained flights of imagination about cake. 

At last Alatir came into the cool room, followed closely by Poicë, who had a look of curiosity written over her delicate features, and Tintinallë, who had just come in for the day and was busy patting her hairnet to be sure it was fully in place. 

“Come with me,” Fandal said with a grin, and picking up a tray of fruit that had been peeled and chopped ready to be put into cold storage, made his way through the steel door and down into the depths of the most private place he could think of for this conversation. 

“We are going to make something very special indeed for the Feast,” he said, setting the tray of fruit carefully on a shelf. “I have chosen you all for your talents — Tintinallë for your delicious cake recipes and delicate touch with decorations, Poicë for the way in which you can logically think through a project, Alatir for your wonderful icing.” 

Alatir grinned. “What did the Queen say?” 

“The King and Queen have asked us to prepare desserts with particular flair; King Finwë wants them to look like other foods. We are going to create a dinner for dessert: roast fowl, mashed potatoes, a bowl of apples, a fruit pie that looks like meat pie, meatballs that are really sweet pastry, and much more.” 

“A question,” Tintinallë said. “Do we know how many people are to attend this Feast? Because if we don’t, this is going to be very difficult to plan.”

“I’ll check with Elévanda,” Alatir said. “I’m sure it will be at least the full Royal Family, along with many of the nobles.” 

“We should plan for a fairly large number: probably around three hundred,” Poicë said, pulling a small chalkboard tablet from her tool belt. “There are thirty in the Royal Family alone, including the children.” She scribbled down some figures. “The ten nobles of the King’s Council will undoubtedly be invited along with their families, that’s another fifty or so. The Princes may invite some of their household, or Prince Fëanáro may bring some of his apprentices, so that could be another twenty. The lesser nobles and their families will easily bring the numbers up over two hundred, and let us not forget the King’s Household; some of them will be invited as always.” 

Tintinallë was also writing busily on her own slate. “In that case, Fandal, how many cakes of what sizes did you want to make?” 

“About one hundred in a variety of sizes and shapes,” Fandal answered. “Some large enough to feed ten or more, some small enough for two. Each one should be unique. I know this makes our work harder, but it is necessary for the delight and surprise the King wishes to invoke in his subjects.” 

Alatir nodded. “I’ll get to work on procuring the sugar we need for that number of people,” he said. “And I expect that you’ll have me refine my icing recipe to make it more malleable.” 

“That would be helpful. This is a very great challenge, one unlike any we have faced before, and this task will be our focus for the coming days. For now, make your plans. I will meet with each of you individually to go over my designs, once I have made them, and we will meet again as a group. I must also tell you to keep this secret, for that is the King’s wish. Tell no one, not even your husbands, not even your parents. Do not even discuss the details with Elévanda.”

Poicë looked over at Fandal. “I will assume the logistical tasks. We should start baking six days ahead, so if Alatir will look into the procurement of refined sugar, I will arrange with Elévanda to have the number of baking assistants that will be required on that day and the following ones.”

“I will inquire about the store of ingredients,” Fandal said. “Sugar we leave with you, Alatir.”

Sugar, in a refined and purified form, was a rarity in Valinor. Most of the Noldor used honey as an everyday sweetener. Trade in syrup from the maple tree was also brisk. As a byproduct of working the sugar cane crop, molasses was sometimes sold in the markets, but white sugar, processed to singular purity, was the province of a Maia of Yavanna who was fascinated by sweet things, and who refined sugar using a device of their own creation. They gave the refined sugar away to King Finwë, usually at a time of their own choosing. 

“I’ll talk to Sweetness,” Alatir replied. The Maia of refined sugar had a name in Valarin but none of them could pronounce it, so they were generally referred to as Sweetness. Alatir had a friendship of long standing with the Maia and was well known in the kitchens as the one to speak to if refined sugar was needed. 

“We will meet again tomorrow to check progress and confirm all the details,” Fandal said. “Now, go to your daywork, and good luck!” 

They began to file out of the cold storage room, but Poicë held back for a moment, smiling at Fandal. “You are very young to take such responsibility,” she said. “But I am sure that you are equal to it, and that this is the start of great things for you.”


	3. Thirteen Days To Go

Today, Fandal’s task was to speak with his team, to confirm numbers for the Feast, and to be sure everything was proceeding according to plan. 

Elévanda was standing at one of the workstations in the main kitchen, peeling potatoes. Despite her position as the manager of the kitchen, she enjoyed doing small rote tasks during quiet times. Most of the kitchen staff had either not yet come in for the day, or were off having their own midday meals when Fandal entered. 

“Ah, Fandal,” she said. “It’s good to see you. I’m told that the King himself gave you an important commission, and that you will be in charge of the desserts for this upcoming Feast.”

“Yes,” Fandal answered. “I have chosen Alatir, Poicë, and Tintinallë for my assistants, and we have been instructed to focus fully on this task.” 

“Good,” Elévanda said. “That relieves any worries over desserts. Meldalot will be taking charge of the general baking for the days to come and also for the Feast. I am told that invitations have been sent to near 300, but that not all are expected to attend; I am certain, for instance, that the family of Arafinwë will not travel from Alqualondë.” 

“It’s good to have an idea of numbers to work to,” Fandal said. “Poicë was right in her estimates. I must speak with Alatir when he comes in and ask if he has been able to find enough sugar.” 

“We have some sugar in storage,” Elévanda said. “Perhaps not enough for this, but enough to make a good start. We can also use filtered honey for the cakes themselves and save the sugar for the icing.”

“I’ve put Tintinallë in charge of making the cakes,” Fandal said. “I’ll speak with her, too, and see if that will work for her.” 

“We do have plenty of refined flour, cornstarch, eggs, milk, butter, and whatever else you may need.”

“Food dyes?” Fandal asked. “I will have to paint near a hundred different cakes.” 

“I’ll check our stores,” Elévanda said, making a note on the small slate she carried. 

Fandal thanked Elévanda and went off to hunt up Alatir. 

Alatir was working on his icing recipe; several bowls with different mixtures of powdered white sugar combined with butter, cream, or soft white cheese in different proportions sat around his workstation. 

“I’ve spoken to Sweetness,” Alatir said as Fandal approached. “They are going to spend the next few days refining as much as they can, and I’m to pick it up the morning we start the baking.”

“Excellent,” Fandal replied. “Are you having any luck with your icing?” 

“I think so,” Alatir said. “This one hardens quickly and I think we can make decorations from it, but this one stays quite soft and will be good for layering and keeping the cakes moist.” 

Fandal quickly set up the workstation next to Alatir’s. “Pass me the one that goes hardest, and I’ll make some shapes with it, to start with.”

Alatir obligingly passed over the bowl, and for a long while they worked together. By the Mingling, the various icing recipes were ready to go and written down for the baking assistants to use in creating the vast amounts that would be needed for the one hundred cakes.


	4. Twelve Days To Go

Fandal scrubbed down his workstation for the last time that day. It was yet some three hours to the Mingling that signified the dinner hour, but he was aware that he had a lot to prepare before Aramiuel arrived at his home. For the moment, she probably thought of him as little more than a friend from their shared school, fading into the distant past of childhood as they grew in their chosen professions. He wanted more than anything to change that, to make her see him for who he had grown up into. 

His parents, upon learning his plans, promptly declared with many a joke and a wink that they would find friends of their own to visit for the evening, leaving him free to court the maiden of his dreams in peace and quiet. He was thus far their only child, and at times while growing up he almost felt himself the elder of them, as they were only a little over a hundred years old themselves, having married and begetted a child at the very moment they were both adults. They had been school friends too. It was often the way. 

Passing through the market, he stopped to buy a chicken, some firm goat’s cheese, and a few vegetables, along with a basket of strawberries he was sure would make an excellent addition to any dessert. 

The next few hours were filled with a fun mix of cooking and anticipation. Fandal stuffed and baked the breasts of his chicken, prepared his vegetables, and put together a rich strawberry cake. As he was starting to ice it, he realised that he had an opportunity here to try out some techniques he’d been thinking about….

When Aramiuel came to the door, she could see through the glass panes to where Fandal was sitting at the table, head in his hands, next to a stack of ruined, crumbling cake, partially iced. She could not help but laugh even as she knocked, and Fandal looked up, quickly rising and coming to the door. 

“Something smells wonderful,” she said. “But what went wrong here?”

“Oh, just everything,” Fandal said grumpily, leading her back toward the dining table. “I was trying to make a cake that looked like something.” 

“Were you trying to make it look like bits of cake?” Aramiuel poked at the pink mixture, amused. 

“I was not,” Fandal said. “I most certainly was not.” 

“Well, I’m sure it will taste lovely, even if it doesn’t look so pretty,” Aramiuel said, patting Fandal on the shoulder in a capable and comforting sort of manner. 

Fandal set the cake into the small cool storage at the back of the kitchen. His parents’ house was built into the side of the hill of Túna, so as to take natural advantage of the coolness of the earth that surrounded the back wall. 

As he emerged, the oven sent forth a low musical chime. This was a clever invention by one of the smiths who worked under Fëanáro, and had originally been created to check the temperature of melted metal, but was refined and now served as a sort of oven timer, indicating when food was ready. 

Aramiuel smiled as Fandal set a plate of chicken stuffed with vegetables and goat’s cheese before her. There was also a new-baked braided loaf and rich butter on the table. “This both looks and smells amazing, Fandal,” she said. “You must have spent hours on it.”

Fandal set his own plate down, and sat down opposite her. “It was a pleasure to cook it for you! I only wish I had better luck with the dessert.” His head was half in the storage room with the ruined cake. He was at the same time so excited that Aramiuel was there with him, enjoying the food he’d cooked, and lost in working out angles and shapes and what could be done with buttercream, and how a mixture of colours could hide a multitude of misfortunes. 

Through the windows the Mingling shone, casting silver-gold light over Aramiuel. Her dark hair, woven through with white beads and amethysts, complemented the lavender and white hues of her clothing. She was the loveliest person Fandal had ever seen. He shook his head, and brought himself back to the moment. 

As they ate, they talked about their lives, catching each other up from their school days. Aramiuel talked about meeting King Finwë when she was chosen to be one of the King’s Callers, and Fandal had to resist talking about his own meeting with the King. 

Despite his happiness at being there with the girl of his dreams, Fandal couldn’t help but keep trying to mentally fix the cake. It was always the way he had been throughout his whole life; brain stuck on figuring out problems, no matter what else was happening. In school, he had been known as a daydreamer, always doodling or carving or painting something, and only half listening to whatever the teacher was lecturing about. 

“You’re clearly far away,” Aramiuel said at last, shaking her head so the beads in her hair clattered. The soft sound woke Fandal from the spell he was under. 

“I’m sorry!” he exclaimed. “I don’t mean to be. I was just thinking about the cake. I…I think I might have an idea for how to fix it.” 

“Right,” Aramiuel said. “Let’s do it then. Come on, you and me. You create, I’ll critique. And by critique I mean taste, once it’s ready.” She rose up from the table, efficiently gathering together the dishes, waving off Fandal’s protests that she was his guest and he would take care of them. “Get your cake,” she ordered. “You know I don’t care for ceremony. We need a clear table for you to work.” 

“Arva!” Fandal said. “Oh, very well, then.” He gathered the cake and the two bowls of buttercream icing, one soft for layering, one hard for decorations, along with several small tubs of already-prepared coloured sugar water. Setting them down on the table, he went back for his brushes and the various knives, both sharp and spreading, which he would need. 

When he returned, Aramiuel was looking down at the cake thoughtfully. “What were you trying to make?”

“A cat,” he said. “In honour of you, of course, my Queen of Cats!” 

It was a very old joke referring to the meaning of Aramiuel’s name, and Aramiuel smiled to hear it. “I think you can do it,” she said. “That’s the cat’s torso, you can carve paws out of that, and maybe all this can be the tail. The head is going to be the hardest. What position did you want the cat to be in?”

“I had envisioned her sitting up on her haunches, but that won’t work, the balance isn’t right.”

“What about if she’s lying down, head on paws, curled up with her tail around her?”

Fandal eyeballed the cake. “If I remove this,” he said, beginning to cut, “and reposition that to just here, and take all this part for the head…and we’re going to have to cut some ears for her, and the paws can just fit in right there.” He took a deep breath, looking down at the changes he’d made. “I think it’ll work!” 

Aramiuel moved out of the way and watched eagerly as Fandal began to cut and ice the cake, setting the separate parts together so that they fitted like a glove on a hand. He was as careful about it as any surgeon or craftsman, his focus absolute, his hands steady. After several minutes of very focused work, he stepped back. The shape of the cat was now apparent but it was not detailed in any way. 

“Now for the painting,” he said, glancing over at Aramiuel with a smile. “This is my favourite part.” 

He began with the body of the cat, painting it mainly black with white splotches. Occasionally he looked quickly over at Aramiuel as if she was the inspiration for the piece. The tail was painted black save for a little white at the tip, and the paws were white too, except for one black splash at the left forepaw. 

Around the cat’s neck, Fandal painted a purple collar, decorated with tiny flowers using his most detailed brush and a wide variety of colours. And on the cat’s head, he drew a little golden crown as the very last detail. 

“Queen of Cats,” he said, laying down his brushes with a low bow to Aramiuel. “This cake is in your honour and awaits your critique.” 

Aramiuel grinned. “Far too pretty to eat,” she said, coming over to stand beside Fandal. She picked up a small piece of the leftover cake, popping it into her mouth, sighing with delight at the taste of strawberry. “But clearly too delicious not to eat.” 

“For a baker, that you should eat and enjoy his creations is the height of all compliments,” Fandal said. “So what part should I cut off first, her tail or her head?”

Aramiuel giggled. “The job of a baker seems a bit gruesome to me at times!” She looked over the cake again, admiring the shape of it and the decoration. “I’ll try the tail. I’d like to admire that pretty face for a while longer.” She looked up at Fandal, who carefully sliced one large piece of cake, then cut it in half, placing the halves on two small plates. 

“Your cake.” He bowed as he handed it to her. She picked up the small fork on the plate, and took a little bite. Her eyes went wide with pleasure. 

“That is delicious!” she exclaimed. “I have no critique, you are perfect.” 

Fandal grinned, straightening up fully and tossing his hair back. “Thank you. I’d like to hear a bit more about how perfect I am.” 

Aramiuel set her plate down on the table. Slowly, with great deliberation, she took the few steps over to him and wrapped her arms around him. “You’re this perfect,” she whispered, her lips a breath away from his. 

Then their lips came together, and for a while, neither of them thought of cake as sweet when compared to each other.


	5. The Next Six Days

Fandal spent the day after his dinner with Aramiuel in a haze of delight, sketching out ideas for various cakes both large and small: roasted birds, bowls of fruit, melons, slabs of meat, vegetables of all kinds, pastries that were really cake, cakes that were really pastry, and much more. The smallest of the cakes could be divided between two children, of whom there would be many at the Feast, and the largest cakes would serve twenty or more adults. 

The next day, he began to work with Alatir and Tintinallë on the detailed decorations for the cakes, the small hard pieces that could be placed on the cakes once they were iced and painted to add beauty and realism. This was a monumental task requiring four full days of incredibly focused, detailed work. It was just the sort of thing Fandal enjoyed best, next to actually decorating the cakes themselves. 

Poicë, meantime, was coordinating everything from the plates and forks to the trolleys that would be needed to move the cakes from the kitchens to the Great Hall, and the number of people that would be needed to help in various capacities. Mixing bowls were pulled from storage and began to be stacked up at one of the workstations. Vast quantities of ingredients arrived: flour of various types, eggs, butter, milk, fruits and vegetables, and much more. 

Alatir checked in on his friend Sweetness, and reported back that the refined sugar would be ready on time, if only just, and that he would personally collect it when summoned. 

Eight days before the Feast, Poicë sat down with Fandal. 

“All will be ready for the day after tomorrow,” she said, handing him the slate where she kept her list. Fandal scanned it quickly. 

“Only ten assistants?” he asked. “Will that be enough?”

“It is all Elévanda can spare,” she answered. “Meldalot has much to do in the way of baking for the Feast as well, and we shall have to do much of our work in the quieter hours, so it is harder to get assistants at those times.” 

While the Eldar did not specifically need to sleep at night, many of them chose to spend the hours of Telperion’s shining in quieter tasks, wandering out under the sky, or enjoying drinks and song with friends. Even the Noldor, dedicated as they were to craft, equally enjoyed time away, and so it was more difficult to get people to come in during the night hours. 

“It will have to suffice,” Fandal said. “What about waiters for serving?” 

“Oh, yes, we have plenty of those,” Poicë said. “But I thought it might be nice for the four of us to serve as ceremonial waiters and escort our cakes in when they arrive. You should take the King’s table, and Alatir can take the one to the right of the King’s table. Then Tintinallë and I can take the ones to the left. We will just supervise, not serve, unless you would particularly like to.” 

“I think I would like to serve the King’s table myself. At least the Royal Family.” 

“Very well,” Poicë said, scribbling down a note. “So you shall.” 

The day before the baking started was filled with careful planning. 

Poicë and Tintinallë walked through the large banqueting hall where the Feast would be held, marking on a large drawing of Poicë’s creation where each cake would be placed. Fandal and Alatir mixed up the softer icing for layering, and studied Fandal’s drawings of the planned cakes assiduously to be sure they had all the right baking tins for the shapes they would need to make. 

At last all was in readiness, sometime after midday. Fandal ordered his team to head to their homes and rest. For his own part, he made his way back to the square where he had seen Aramiuel, and sat down beside a fountain, thinking over all the plans for the coming days. He was so absorbed that he did not see Aramiuel approaching. 

She touched him lightly on the shoulder and he jumped. “Arva!” he exclaimed. 

“You look very far away again,” she observed. “I wanted to bring you back to the present.” She leaned forward, smiling, and kissed him, wrapping her arms around him, leaving his head swimming with something sweeter than cake. 

“I’m here,” he said softly. “Nowhere else but here with you.” 

“I know,” she replied, taking his hand and sitting down next to him. For a long while they sat together, talking of this and that, and by the time Fandal reluctantly rose to go home, he felt rested, at peace, calm.


	6. Six Days To Go

It was deep in the night, well before the early Mingling, and Telperion was shining silver when Fandal showed up outside the kitchen doors to the Royal Palace, only to see Alatir springing down from a horse-drawn cart, a bright smile on his pretty face. 

“Will that be enough sugar, do you think?” Alatir said, gesturing to the cart, which was full of large bags. “Sweetness was happy to work steadily through the last few days for us.” 

“Very kind of them,” Fandal said. “Yes, I think that will be enough, thank you, Alatir.” 

Today they would start baking the cakes according to the careful plans Fandal had worked out. There would be one hundred cakes in total, enough to serve three hundred and a little more. Most of the cakes were designed to serve around three to four people, with a few serving only two, and another few serving ten or even twenty people. 

Poicë had been put in charge of gathering the rest of the ingredients for the cakes, and, with the help of several assistants, was currently weighing portions of flour, setting aside quantities of eggs, milk, butter, salt, and spices, and setting out all the bowls suitable for mixing on various workstations. Tintinallë was rummaging through the cake tins, some shaped like loaves, some round, some square, some rectangular, some in the shapes of leaves or hearts or stars. 

Fandal helped Alatir and two of the baking assistants carry the sugar in, setting aside a portion of it on one of the workstations. He took a moment to glance around the kitchen. It was so early that no one else was there, not even Elévanda. 

It was typical for at least one or two cooks to stay on through the darker hours of Telperion’s shining, preparing the kitchen for the day, but tonight, it was just his team, the four of them and ten assistants. The oven-fires were at their lowest, waiting to be stoked back up, and they were all ready to begin. 

With nothing more than a glance back over her shoulder at him, Tintinallë cracked the first egg into the first bowl, and they were off. 

The next few hours were controlled pandemonium. The fourteen of them wove a dance in the kitchens. Tintinallë and three of the assistants mixed the cakes, Poicë and two others made sure her ingredients were to hand and greased the tins, Fandal himself, along with another three assistants, transferred bowls of mixed cakes to the appropriate well-greased tins, and Alatir with his two assistants, having stoked the fires back up, put them one by one into the great ovens, watching carefully to be sure they did not burn and waiting for the low chimes that signaled a fully baked cake. 

After a time, the other kitchen staff began to come in for the morning baking. They realised, or had been told, that an enterprise of great proportions was in the making, for as they all moved around the kitchen, the rest of the cooks wove in and out and between them, stepping carefully and swiftly out of their way. Fandal thought he saw Meldalot grin at him cheerfully as she braided the loaves of bread for the day; he thought he saw Elévanda gesture another cook away from where Alatir was carefully balancing one raw cake mix as he took a baked cake out of the oven. 

At the end of that long day, as the evening Mingling faded back to Telperion’s silver light, one hundred cakes sat cooling on great racks in a long row across the workstations in the cool room. Alatir dropped into a seat and started fanning himself, Poicë and the ten assistants carefully put all the leftover ingredients away, and Tintinallë hovered anxiously over the cakes, checking them to be sure they were perfect. 

“Well done,” Fandal said. “At any rate, well begun — I know the hardest part is yet to come.”

“I made sure there was space enough for them all in the cold storage,” Poicë said. “Once they are all cool, we can cover them and begin taking them down.” She gestured to the trolley they sometimes used when transporting heavy or bulky things in and out of cold storage. “We can get seven or eight cakes at a time on this.” 

“Tomorrow Alatir and I will cut all the cakes into the shapes they are meant to be. Once all the cakes are the right shape and have been given a base layer of icing, we will bring the cakes up one at a time for decoration, before sending them back to cold storage ready for the Feast day. I estimate it will take us the better part of the next five days to do this. Poicë and Tintinallë, if you could both assist with the base icing layers? I will of course do the final decoration: one hundred works of art in five days!” 

“They will be long days for you, Fandal,” Alatir said. 

“Long days for us all. Best that we all go and rest now while we can, once these cakes are stowed away.”


	7. Five Days To Go

Aramiuel took a detour down the corridors of the Royal Palace, smiling to herself. She was delaying her task to cry the King’s news but only for a few minutes. 

With a quick knock at the door of the kitchen, she entered, spotting Elévanda. “Is Fandal here?” she asked. 

“Yes, he’s in the next room,” Elévanda said, looking up from the roast she was putting in the oven. “I do not believe I know you, young one.”

“I’m Aramiuel, a friend of Fandal. I merely wished to see him for a moment.” Aramiuel felt her face heat up in a way that was not caused by the warmth in the kitchen. “I’m one of the King’s Callers.” 

Elévanda nodded, her chin jerking in the direction of the glass door of the cool room. “He’s in there. I understand he’s very busy.”

“Oh, I won’t be long,” Aramiuel said, heading toward the door. 

When she entered the room, it was to see Fandal with a knife in his hand, carefully carving away at a cake, in much the same way as he had carved the cat for her a few days before. His face was screwed up in concentration. Around him three others stood, watching to see what he was doing. All of them wore the garb of the King’s cooks. Fandal was the youngest there, but also the one clearly in charge. 

“Now! Alatir, remove those crumbs for me but don’t throw them away, we’ll need them. Poicë, can you hand me that spreading knife beside you, and Tintinallë, I’m going to need that bowl of chocolate icing.” 

The moment was a tense one, and Aramiuel stood back, not wanting to disturb them, as Fandal, steady and slow, turned what looked like two halves of a semi-oval cake into what looked like the body of…a bird? She peered closer as he carried on icing, and the small movement was enough to catch his attention. 

“Arva!” he exclaimed, looking up, the spreading knife clattering to the countertop. 

“It’s good to see you, Fandal,” Aramiuel said. “You’re clearly in your element here.” 

He made his way over to her, while behind him Alatir, Poicë, and Tintinallë exchanged meaningful looks and near-silent giggles behind his back. “It’s good to see you, Arva,” he said, his voice tender. 

She held out her hand and he took it in both of his own, bending to kiss the back of it gently, spurring another round of exchanged looks and poking each other from the team just behind him. 

Aramiuel, who could clearly see the mischievous three though Fandal could not, turned a bright smile on them. “And what beautiful thing are you making today?”

Alatir, Poicë, and Tintinallë looked quickly to Fandal, who smiled softly. “You’ll have to wait and see,” he said, her hand still in one of his. 

“Not a cat, then,” she said with a grin. 

“Not a cat,” Fandal said. “You’ll find out on the day of the Feast.”

“Well, then, while I am here I should do my duty, and tell you that the Feast will be magnificent! And not only have the nobles and their families been invited, many of the common folk have been bidden to come as well, including many in the King’s House.” She gave Fandal a smile. “I have been invited, have you?” 

“We are needed here,” Fandal said. “Alas, for I greatly desire to see you in all your finery.” He took a breath. “But wait! We shall be escorting the cakes in, so I may see you then!” 

“I hope so!” Aramiuel said. “But nevertheless I will tell you everything that happens.” She leaned in and kissed his cheek. “I must go now, but I hope to see you again soon, before the Feast if it is possible.” 

“Come and find me here at the late Mingling tomorrow,” Fandal said, returning the kiss. “May good fortune go with you!” 

“And may good fortune remain!” With a wave of her hand at all four of them, Aramiuel slipped out the door, off to deliver her news. 

“So,” Alatir said with a grin at Fandal, “who was that?” 

Fandal blushed bright red. “I…she…we….”

“Oh, how sweet,” Tintinallë said, reaching up and ruffling his hair. “The pair of you are just too cute.” 

Fandal covered his face with his hands. “We should get back to work,” he muttered after a moment, half muffled. Then he straightened up and looked over at the cake. Focus returned.


	8. The Day of the Feast

Elves are by nature hardy creatures, able to survive on little food and sleep. Fandal often worked through the silvery light of Telperion just for pleasure alone, and was easily able to endure three or four Minglings with no sleep whatsoever, not even reverie.

But at this point he was conscious of the beginning of exhaustion. He had been working steadily for five days now, with only the occasional break to eat and rest a little. The work he was doing was intense enough that he could not engage in reverie, for it demanded concentration and careful skill. Though the other three were talented artists in their own right, it was Fandal who designed the cakes, and Fandal who did much of the work to create them.

Aramiuel had visited him in the kitchens twice more in the intervening days, and her bright smile seemed to give him back the energy he needed to carry on.

The silvery light shone through the glass door of the cool room where he worked side-by-side with Alatir. Just a few more cakes, and they would all be complete.

He completed a dessert that appeared to be a bowl of apples: a dark blue bowl holding bright red apples. In reality the apples were decorated pastry similar to doughnuts, with apple and cinnamon filling, and the bowl was formed from sugar-glass.

The next cake would be a rolled chocolate cake with a light chocolate creme filling, made to resemble a rolled beef roast. Alatir went to the cold storage, carefully bringing the cake back to the workstation. It was already rolled up with greased paper, and Fandal gently unrolled it, removing the paper, while Alatir iced it. They had become so efficient at working together that they hardly needed to speak.

The inside of the cake iced, Fandal rolled it back up with great care. Sometimes rolled cakes, no matter the precautions, could break as they were being unrolled or rerolled. But this one stayed together, and after a moment it was complete and ready for the outside to be iced and decorated.

“How many more?” Fandal asked, beginning to decorate with a base layer of chocolate icing.

“This is the last one,” Alatir said. He sounded tired too, having been at Fandal’s side nearly every moment of the last five days.

“Good,” Fandal breathed. “You should go home to your Cáro and get some rest before the Feast tonight. You must be missing him, these long nights.”

Alatir blushed. “So should you. Well, not that you have a husband, but you should go home anyway.”

Fandal smiled. “Not a husband, but hopefully one of these days, a wife.” He finished the base layer and began to decorate the cake with black glittering sugar that he hoped would give the impression of the crust of a beef roast. “I really like Aramiuel. I’ve always liked her, from our earliest childhood, and I hope that she feels the same.”

Alatir handed him the bits of decorative ‘string’ that Fandal laid across the cake evenly, giving the impression of a roast that had been tied up. “I don’t think you have anything to worry about, Fandal,” he said. “I’ve seen the look on her face when she comes to see you. She feels the same way about you.”

Fandal looked down at the cake, inspecting it carefully. “There are some things you both know and hope for at the same time. Part of me knows how she feels about me. But part of me is still afraid. Like these cakes. I know they are good work, and they are beautiful, and they have fulfilled exactly what was asked. But I still worry, and I will until tonight, until the King himself says that he is pleased.”

Alatir patted him on the shoulder. “You won’t have long to wait, Fandal, not for the cakes, and most likely not for the girl, either.”

Fandal took a step back, giving the cake one final look over. “Well. That’s finished,” he said, almost sounding as though he could hardly believe it.

“I’ll put it back in storage,” Alatir said, picking up the cake and proceeding to the heavy door of the cold storage room. “Go home and sleep.”

“You too,” Fandal said. “Return at the third hour before the Mingling.”

“Yes, yes, I know. See you then.” Alatir disappeared into the cold storage, and Fandal quickly cleaned up the last of the icing, washed his hands, and removed his apron for laundering.

He went home to find his father had made a simple broth for him, and his mother had baked bread. After thanking them, eating wearily, and bathing, he dropped into bed and promptly into true-sleep for the next several hours.

Upon returning to the palace kitchens that afternoon, Fandal walked in upon a scene of controlled chaos. Elévanda was in her element, directing cooks hither and yon, giving instructions to those who would be waiting on tables, and somehow managing to keep an eye on everything in the boiling-hot kitchen to be sure it was nothing less than perfect.

His team needed to stay out of the way of the other bakers. Meldalot was clearly enjoying being in charge, and, in a pointed imitation of Elévanda, was keeping an eye on everyone else’s work while she kneaded her own bread.

Fandal gladly escaped into the coolest part of the room, where Poicë and Tintinallë, along with their assistants, had begun to bring the cakes out of cold storage so they would be at the right temperature when served, starting with the larger ones. They would have to be very careful to ensure the cool room stayed at the right temperature.

If the room got too warm, the icing might begin to melt and destroy the artwork. The timing needed to be more or less perfect: if the cakes were too cold, they would not be pleasant to eat, but if they were too warm, the icing would smear, and all of Fandal’s work over the last five days would be for naught.

“Let me help,” Fandal said, joining in, after checking the thermometer in the corner of the room to be sure it was still cool enough.

Alatir arrived a few minutes later, yawning and still looking a bit tired. He blushed when Tintinallë teased him about Cáro keeping him awake.

“It won’t be long now until it’s all over,” Tintinallë said. “Everyone is arriving, and dinner will be served soon.”

Fandal stopped breathing for a moment. Not long now. The cakes would be served, and it would be done. All that hard work for a few moments’ pleasure for three hundred people.

Well. Three hundred people including Aramiuel. At the thought of seeing her, dressed in fine clothing and eating one of his cakes, he started breathing again.

Tintinallë had the large drawing of the dining hall, with the places where each cake would go, spread out on a workstation, and was slowly but surely moving all the cakes into groups so that each table could have a few trolleys going to it containing the right cakes.

The tables were very long indeed, seating around seventy-five per table. In addition to the King himself, Fandal would be serving the whole Royal Family, while other waiters would serve the nobles at the King’s Table. Alatir and his team of waiters would serve most of the common folk who had been invited, along with members of the King’s Household like Aramiuel, while Poicë and Tintinallë and their waiters would be serving the lesser nobles and a few of the common folk.

The dinner was being served by the time the four of them got all the cakes organised onto the right trolleys. Elévanda poked her head through the door at one point, asking if all was well, and Fandal must have assented, but couldn’t remember ever after what he said.

At last it was time! The waiters filed in to take the trolleys and Fandal, Alatir, Poicë, and Tintinallë followed as they manoeuvred the trolleys carefully through the corridors to the Great Hall.

Fandal was conscious that as they entered the wide room, some of the wheels of the trolleys squeaked on the tiled floor. The wall directly ahead of him had rich hangings showing woodland and riverside scenes, and he kept his eyes fixed on those, until he arrived at the King’s table.

[](https://i.ibb.co/LY0GG9S/the-feast.png)

King Finwë gave him a reassuring smile, and it was that which allowed him to take a breath and, simultaneously with the rest of the waiters, begin to lay the cakes out upon the table, one by one.

Nolofinwë, dressed in burgundy and white, looked suitably astonished as Fandal placed down a creation which looked like meatballs and rice but actually was sweet pastry stuffed with cream atop shredded coconut from the far south of Aman.

Even Fëanáro, the clever but reclusive prince, pretty as a picture in his red garments with a rainbow collar and cuffs, looked impressed as Fandal continued placing dishes down. A fruit pie that looked like a meat pie. That ‘roast’ he had taken so many pains over. The sugar-glass bowl of ‘apples’ he set down in front of Fëanáro’s eldest, Nelyafinwë.

“Maitimo!” Findekáno, seated across from his friend, gasped in astonishment as Fandal set down what appeared to be a roast goose in front of him, complete with legs and wings. It had taken much labour to get them exactly right. “Maitimo, these cakes are stunning!” Findekáno turned to Fandal. “Did you make them?”

Struck dumb at being directly addressed, Fandal could only blush and nod.

“Well done, young one,” Nelyafinwë said, looking down the table at the desserts. “You have a true talent.”

“These are all so beautiful! So detailed…” Fëanáro drew the platter with the ‘roast meat’ cake on it closer to himself and carefully inspected it. “It is as my son says. If you worked in metal rather than sugar I would take you as my apprentice in a heartbeat.”

Fandal smiled. “Thank you, my Lord,” he said.

At that moment, King Finwë rose from his great chair, as all heads turned to the King’s table. At a distant seat, Fandal spotted Aramiuel wearing a dark blue dress with white roses in her hair, as she turned curiously to look up the room at the King. He stood back, to the left of the King’s chair, hands folded behind his back, waiting to hear what the King would say.

“My Lords and Ladies, my folk and family, hear ye all the purpose for which I have gathered you together. You see before you my elder sons, Curufinwë Fëanáro and Nolofinwë Arakáno. None can rival my Fëanáro in craft, and none can rival my Nolofinwë in knowledge. Fëanáro has recently attained his fifth mastery, holding now masteries over Language, Smithcraft, Textiles, Glasswork, and now Gemcraft. Nolofinwë now holds four masteries: in History, in Music, in Philosophy, and now in Language.”

He gave both his sons looks of deep pride, though they were pointedly not looking at each other. Fandal could see from his vantage point that Anairë, Nolofinwë’s wife, had her hand on his arm as if to restrain him. Further down the table, Nelyafinwë gave Findekáno a reassuring smile.

“The time has come to honour them both,” Finwë continued. “Long have I been pressured to decide which of them will be declared High Prince, and who will stand as my heir should I ever desire to lay aside the duties of Kingship.”

An aide came forth, bearing two small silver crowns on a pillow. Finwë took them in his hands. “I declare today that both my sons are High Princes and heirs of their father. They must work together, should I ever lay aside the crown.” He placed one crown on the head of Fëanáro, and the other on the head of Nolofinwë, to general bafflement.

Everyone in the room was stunned at this news. No one had expected it. Fandal, looking around, could see open mouths and wide eyes. Aramiuel, in the distance, was shaking her head, whether from surprise or amusement or general shock, Fandal could not say. In one corner of the room, Poicë and Tintinallë were whispering frantically to each other, and in the other corner, Alatir was as wide-eyed as the rest. Even Elévanda, at the very back of the room, engaged in the task of silently gesturing at staff to remove dishes onto trolleys and remove trolleys back to the kitchens, stopped what she was doing, her hand in mid-air, and stared up at Finwë.

Finwë continued as if nothing was amiss and his sons were not even now glaring daggers at each other. “We thank you all for your presence here at this most auspicious event, and hope that you have enjoyed yourselves!” He bowed his head at the crowd and sat back down, smiling at both of his sons in a pleased and proud way.

Pandemonium broke forth, though for the most part those in attendance remained seated. A perfect babble of voices arose, and by dint of his position near the great chair of Finwë, Fandal could hear and see perfectly clearly both of his sons turn to him and exclaim in unison, with horror and scorn, “Father, how could you do this to me?”

Finwë just laughed. “You boys need to learn how to work together,” he said.

“But he hates me,” Nolofinwë said.

“But I hate him,” Fëanáro said at nearly the same time.

“That shouldn’t stop you from working together for the good of our people,” Finwë answered. “Now, have done with this. Eat your desserts.” He turned toward Fandal, gesturing him over.

Fandal suddenly remembered how to walk, and did his best to step carefully and proudly, aware that kingly eyes were on him. He bowed. “Yes, my King?”

“Thank you, young Fandal. You have done a marvellous job here. So much variety!”

“Every cake is unique, my Lord. But the praise should not be mine alone, for Alatir, Poicë, and Tintinallë have contributed equally.”

“But it was you who led them. You who received my request and carried it out. And you who designed and created all of these works of art.”

“Yes, my Lord, it was I.”

Finwë pulled a ring from his smallest finger and dropped it into Fandal’s stunned hand. It was silver and bore a large sapphire. “This is for you, Fandal, in gratitude.”

Fëanáro had been watching, and turned to Fandal. “That is of my own crafting, so it is no trinket you have been given, young one,” he said.

“I am honoured by it,” Fandal replied.

“It is meant to endow a virtue to make all the works of your hands fair,” Fëanáro continued. “But it hardly seems you need it overmuch. If ever you wish a change from the Palace and from the noise and heat of Tirion, come and find a place in our kitchens!”

Fandal bowed his head in acknowledgement, as Nerdanel too smiled upon him, and nodded her assent as well.

“You must be very weary,” Finwë said, and Fandal could not help but agree. “Go, take your rest.” He smiled upon Fandal, who bowed again and slowly walked away. His feet were taking him one step at a time closer to the only person he wished to be near now.

Aramiuel rose from her chair as Fandal approached. She stood still, a vision of beauty, dark hair cascading down her back, adorned with white roses, in a blue gown that seemed to exactly match the blue of her eyes.

She seemed to sense something of his weariness, for she said no word, but put her hand in his and led him away, out of the grand hall, down the corridor, and out into the cool summer night. The scent of the air was cool and fresh after the stuffy heat of the Great Hall, and before that, the heavy labour he had been under in the kitchens.

“Come and sit with me,” Aramiuel said, leading him to a stone bench opposite a fountain that splashed silver in Telperion’s light.

Before long, the dazed weariness began to pass off, and Fandal opened his hand to find the ring glittering there, the stone softly shining in the dim light. And there was only one thing he wanted to say now.

“I know it is early yet,” he breathed, and Aramiuel leaned in closer to hear him, “but I would give you this ring in earnest of betrothal rings, if you will have it. And me.”

“Don’t you know yet that I would?” Aramiuel said, the edge of laughter in her voice. She placed her hand over the one holding the ring, and leaned over to kiss him.

“Well, you can know, and yet not know,” Fandal said.

“Do you know now?” She took the ring from him and slipped it on her finger, then kissed him again.

“I know.”


	9. Epilogue

If you like your happy endings happy with no complications, let me just tell you that Fandal and Aramiuel were married after a few years. They had a beautiful daughter and son, and lived happily ever after.

For the rest of you, while it’s certainly true that Fandal and Aramiuel were very happy together, this is _The Silmarillion_ and they are Noldor, so _happily ever after_ is a bit of a difficult ask. 

When Fandal returned to the Palace kitchens the next day, it was to find that he had been promoted to Head Baker, well above many who were older than him. He was essentially of equal status with Elévanda now. He served faithfully in the kitchens for many years, but when Finwë followed Fëanáro into exile, Fandal and Aramiuel followed as well to stay near their king. Alatir and his husband Cáro followed too, but Poicë, Tintinallë, and Elévanda stayed in Tirion. 

In the Darkening of Valinor, Fandal felt fear like never before, and it did not take him long to persuade Aramiuel that they needed to follow Fëanáro and Nolofinwë to Middle-earth. Though neither of them fought at Alqualondë, Fandal served under Fëanáro now, and his family was permitted to come along on the ships with the Fëanorians. In that crossing, their son was nearly washed overboard, and was only saved by Aramiuel at great risk to herself. 

In Mithrim, Fandal began to rethink following Fëanáro, and once Nolofinwë arrived and was established as the High King, Fandal and Aramiuel followed him to Barad Eithel from the time of its earliest construction. There, Fandal easily attained the status of Head Baker once again, and Aramiuel resumed her old career as the King’s Caller, eventually moving on from that to become a King’s Messenger, and finally a Herald. Their daughter, mostly grown up at the time of the Darkening, became an elite archer in Prince Fingon’s guard, and their son, once grown, followed Fandal to the kitchens.

Fandal kept up a lively correspondence when possible with Alatir, who had decided along with his Cáro to remain with the House of Fëanor and now served in Himring’s kitchens. Sugar, rather than being difficult, turned out to be impossible to obtain in Middle-earth, but Alatir experimented bravely with honey, maple syrup, and anything sweet he could get his hands on. It was said in later years that a taste of honey-cake made by Alatir could bring a smile to the face of even the grim Lord of Himring, One-Handed Maedhros. 

The Battle of Sudden Flame was a shock to the system, and it resulted in the death of their daughter, the elite archer. Fandal and Aramiuel began to seriously think about trying to find some safer place, and when upon High King Fingon’s coronation, the decision was made to send all the children away, Fandal and Aramiuel went along with them, leaving behind their son to work in the kitchens, for he would not go. 

The Battle of Unnumbered Tears proved them right, but it also meant the death of their son. As far as they could ever tell, he perished in the sack of Barad Eithel, and it was a great relief to both his parents that he had not been taken alive to Angband. In the years after, they followed Cirdan and Gil-galad to Balar, but when the Havens of Sirion began to become a thriving town, they went there. 

So there they were when the Fëanorians descended upon them intent upon capturing the Silmaril. Fandal was in the kitchens of Elwing’s palace, and rushed out, frying pan in hand, to the defence when called. He was no soldier and had very little idea what he was doing with the frying pan, but he got in a lucky hit, then looked down at the person he had knocked unconscious to find to his surprise that it was Alatir. 

Fandal quickly dragged him back into the kitchens, barricading the door, and revived him. Turns out Alatir had very little idea what he was doing in battle either, and even less motivation to stay with the House of Fëanor at this point. He had not been involved in Doriath at all but had stayed behind at the camp. He was only brought to this battle because the Fëanorians brought literally everyone they had. 

When the sounds of battle ceased, Alatir and Fandal emerged to find very few people remaining, most of them wounded. Among the wounded was Aramiuel, who had rushed to Elwing’s defence and been shoved hastily aside with a dagger to the shoulder. She lived, but her right arm was never fully sound while she dwelt in Middle-earth. 

Alatir also found there the body of his husband Cáro, and his grief was great. Slowly the few alive and unhurt worked through the many wounded and many dead, and when Gil-galad arrived, they gladly abandoned Sirion to the waves and wind. 

In the War of Wrath, Fandal, Aramiuel, and Alatir mostly just tried to stay out of the way. When Balar sank, they travelled to the slopes of the Ered Luin, and dwelt there with other refugees. Fandal and Alatir found their skills strained to the utmost to cook and bake for those among them who could not by reason of either injury or lack of skill. 

Once the War was over, Aramiuel was deeply weary from the hurt she had sustained at Sirion. Only in Aman could it be healed, so there she was determined to return. Fandal wished to stay behind for a while, and to serve in Gil-Galad’s kitchens. So with great sadness they took their leave of each other for the first time in all their married life, and Aramiuel sailed for Aman, there to seek the Gardens of Lorien for healing and rest. 

Alatir remained with Fandal, and they enjoyed many years in the kitchens of Lindon, serving the king. Once Imladris was founded, they travelled there in the King’s entourage and were enchanted by it, and begged leave of both the King and Elrond to remain there. 

This was granted, and they spent many thousands of years baking in Elrond’s kitchens. Fandal himself designed the kitchens based on the way they had been laid out in the Royal Palace of Tirion. 

At the end of the Third Age, when Elrond left Rivendell, Fandal and Alatir decided that it was time to go home. 

Aramiuel, fully healed, met them on the docks and greeted her husband with great joy. By her side stood their children and Alatir’s Cáro, all reborn.

And they really did live happily ever after, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Fandal was only the first in a long line of people making things out of cake, and now in 2020, [EVERYTHING IS CAKE](https://youtu.be/-p4EsoqHVEg).


End file.
